


Of Injuries and Guilt

by TwentyFirstCenturyJane



Category: Psych
Genre: Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentyFirstCenturyJane/pseuds/TwentyFirstCenturyJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t that Carlton hates Shawn exactly, it’s just; he doesn’t really like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Injuries and Guilt

It isn’t that Carlton hates Shawn exactly, it’s just; he doesn’t really like him.

  
He’s loud and obnoxious and too damn smart for his own good, and he wastes his potential. He spends his time using obscure references and eating junk food and being a goddamn child and he could be doing anything. Could be the best cop on the force if he’d gone to the Academy, could be one of them instead of a consultant, a civilian who has no right to be out among the less savory characters of the city.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Because Carlton should be the one on that white bed, with tubes all over him and beeping machines and doctors with grave faces and clipboards. Gus wouldn’t be pacing the floor, wringing his hands, O’Hara wouldn’t be opening and closing her phone as though she’s missing a call that can explain this to her. Henry Spencer wouldn’t have walked into the room, turned white, and walked right back out, too frightened and angry and unsure to stand there and look down at his only son.

If Shawn hadn’t wasted his potential, hadn’t decided that defying his father was better than being something amazing, then he wouldn’t be  
pale and small and injured, and Carlton wouldn’t be feeling this breaking in his chest.

Slowly the hours dwindle away and O’Hara heads off to the station, gives him a tight-lipped smile, Gus leaves a little later, presses Shawn’s hand with warmth that Carlton pretends not to see, leaving the Head Detective all alone with the sleeping psychic. Henry is seated just outside of the room, unable to see his son broken, but unable to leave him.

Carlton stays.

He sits down in the chair beside the bed, takes Shawn’s hand in his own, and for the first time in nearly twenty years, feels tears prick behind his eyes.

It isn’t that he hasn’t seen others hurt in the line of duty; he’s been injured himself a time or two, hell, he’s seen Shawn hurt before, the incident with Drimmer, and when the psychic had been kidnapped and shot.

But it’s different this time, because it’s Carlton’s fault. He’d forgotten that Shawn was a civilian, had forgotten that even with all his apparent “knowledge” of the criminal, he doesn’t have a badge or a gun.

He had no right to be there. Carlton had let his feelings get in the way of his better judgment, had let the idea of something with Shawn shade over his duty as an officer of the law. He’d let Shawn come along, had liked the company.

And if Carlton had been doing his job then he would be the one fighting for his life on that bed. And he could live with that because it’s his job.

He squeezes the cool hand in his grasp and speaks for the first time since he’d shouted for paramedics into his phone, hands pressing on Shawn’s body, desperate to stem the flow of blood that had seemed to come from everywhere.

“Sp…” his voice catches and he clears his throat harshly, embarrassed, “Spencer, if you die and I have to fill out the paperwork, I swear to God…come on Shawn, don’t do this.”

The tears slip, fall, he doesn’t wipe them away; just bows over the pale hand and lets his heart break.

0000000

When he wakes up, his neck is tight, the muscles strained from his position bent over Shawn’s bed. Henry’s standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, features pinched. Carlton sits up quickly, winces when his body protests volubly.

“The doctor said that the damage isn’t as extensive as they thought, turns out, Shawn will be able to walk; he’ll need physical therapy, but he’ll walk.”

He doesn’t say what they’re both thinking; that Shawn will only be able to walk if he wakes up.

“That’s good.”

Henry nods, “Yeah.”

They both look at the pale psychic and Carlton rubs some of the stiffness out of his neck.

“I have to get to the station, talk to O’Hara, you’ll call?”

Henry looks slightly surprised for only a moment before a smile takes over his face, “Yeah, the second anything changes.”

Carlton nods, satisfied, and with one last look at Shawn, leaves the hospital.

0000000

He’s made three different rookies cry when Chief Vick finally calls him into her office and demands that he either go home or back to the hospital, because he isn’t of any use to anyone there. She looks as surprised as he feels when he doesn’t even put up a token protest and instead tosses on his jacket against the rain that has started up, and heads out to his car.

He drives to the hospital on auto pilot and nearly collides with Henry when he reaches Shawn’s room.

“Detective, excellent,” he tosses a dirty look over his shoulder and Carlton settles on being confused because the hope that Henry’s action brings is too sharp to contemplate, “you can keep him in bed while I go get a nurse.”

“Dad, I’m fine!” Shawn’s voice is small, he sounds tired, but it’s unmistakably him and something in Carlton’s chest gives way at the sound.

He actually feels a little light-headed with relief and nods his way past Henry, who does as he said and heads off towards the nurse’s station.  
Shawn is still pale, dark circles under his eyes, but he’s smiling, and gives a small wave.

“Lassie, you came to see me! Did you bring me a present? A pineapple perhaps? My dad says that I’ll be on a liquid diet for a while, but I think that I can make room for pineapple.”

Relief and anger war for a moment in Carlton’s veins, because Shawn is alive and awake and there’s no evidence of brain damage, but he’s flippant, as though he hasn’t just evaded the clammy grasp of death.

Relief wins out and he feels a smile tug at his mouth.

“Sorry Shawn, no pineapple.”

He settles down into the chair by the bed, and briefly wonders why they make the chairs so uncomfortable if they’re meant for family to sit  
and wait.

“Don’t you know it’d bad form for you to visit an injured person and not bring a present?”

Carlton resists another smile, “Well, I’ll remember that.”

Shawn nods sagely, as though he’s departed a truly important bit of wisdom and shifts in the bed, winces when the wounds he’s amassed dispute the movement.

Carlton watches in the slightest bit of fear as Shawn’s muscles tighten and his body begins to shake when the adrenaline of the pain hits and he looks so pathetic that Carlton can’t resist taking his hand.

Shawn holds his arms out, “C-C-Carlton, I don’t f-f-feel r-right.”

Carlton stands, nudges Shawn over gently and lays his own lanky form out on the uncomfortable hospital bed, tucks the shivering psychic into his arms. Shawn wraps around him best as he can with his tubes and wounds and Carlton doesn’t bother to hide his smile this time because  
Shawn can’t see it.

“You know, I’ve been spending the last eight months trying to get you into bed,” Shawn starts when his shivering starts to subside, “who knew it would take me getting shot?”

Carlton rolls his eyes, “You are doing nothing but resting and healing in this bed, Spencer.”

Shawn laughs, breaks off with a startled and pained gasp, “Fine, ruin my fun, this bed is moveable Lassie….”

The leer would be more believable if it wasn’t followed by a wince. As it is, Carlton is glad that Shawn is so injured, because the feel of him in his arms has heat unfurling in his gut.

“We’ll see when you’re better how long it takes you to get me into bed a second time.”

Shawn’s fingers dig into Carlton’s chest and he shivers again, but this one seems much more pleasant than the last few. The heat blossoms and floods Carlton’s entire body.

“Lassie, just how long do I have to heal before we can make things interesting?”

Carlton grins and leans down. The kiss is short, chaste; Shawn is still too hurt for anything too intense.

“Not too long, let’s hope,” Carlton growls against the younger man’s mouth. Shawn smiles; wicked and dark and full of promise.

“Just think of how much fun we’ll have with physical therapy.”


End file.
